


you and me (trouble dipped in honey tea)

by dashwood



Series: Berlermo Faculty AU [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Andrés is an emotional dumbass, Ariadna is there and she gets to talk shit about Andrés, Bi awakening, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary Elements, Faculty AU, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mention of Serquel, Rivalry, Self-Loathing, Swearing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Use of 24-hour clock because this is set in Spain, cameos by other characters, with just a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24646114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: It was a truth universally acknowledged that the Faculty of Arts and Humanity was at war with the Faculty of Science and Engineering.The feud dated back for decades – nay, centuries. It was rooted in a long-standing tradition of in-fighting and intrigues. Andrés would be lying if he claimed that he knew of its origins. He had inherited it when he had taken over as the head of faculty, and who was he to re-write history and throw away a perfectly good rivalry?Or: Art professor vs. engineering professor. Screaming at each other at faculty meetings and fighting over the school resources for their departments.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Berlermo Faculty AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904077
Comments: 51
Kudos: 230
Collections: Berlermo Bingo





	you and me (trouble dipped in honey tea)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shotgun_Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/gifts).



> —who came up with the idea and tag-line, provided me with invaluable ideas and headcanons, and held my hand throughout the writing process. You're a treasure.
> 
> This fic also fits the theme _Rivals_ for the Berlermo Bingo, so you betcha that I'm claiming that square for my card.
> 
> Edit: Apparently, [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/works) is not just a brilliant writer, but also an amazing artist (I know, unfair). Thank you for this most gorgeous of all [fanart](https://czpla.tumblr.com/post/623543018701684736/so-you-know-how-i-appreciate-sorrydearie-a-normal) | [fanart](https://twitter.com/boom_slap/status/1303041174777856000) | [fanart](https://twitter.com/boom_slap/status/1351917250295590912)

\--

[Excerpt of the Minutes for the 186th Annual Budget Meeting] 

**University of Madrid, MU**   
**Budget Committee Meeting**   
11.02.2020 

**Members present:** Sergio Marquina (Chairman), Mónica Gaztambide (School Board Rep.), Raquel Murillo (Faculty of Law Rep.), Andrés de Fonollosa (Faculty of Arts and Humanity Rep.), Aníbal Cortés (Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies Rep.), Silene Oliveira (Faculty of Educational Science Rep.), Daniel ‘Denver’ Ramos (Faculty of Philosophy Rep.) 

**Absent:** Martín Berrote (Faculty of Science and Engineering Rep.) 

8:30: Meeting assembled. Mónica made tea and coffee. 

8:35: Andrés proposed to start the meeting as it appeared that Martín would not be in attendance. 

8:40: Sergio went over the monetary expenses of the preceding calendar year and the proposed cuts to the budgets of the Faculty of Philosophy and the Faculty of Arts and Humanity, respectively. 

8:42: Andrés suggested re-distributing the budget by making cuts to the Faculty of Science and Engineering instead. Motion was seconded by Denver. 

8:45: Martín joined the meeting despite apparent dress code violations [dressed only in a pair of boxers; Sergio was not amused]. Claimed that he was ‘paint-balled in a vicious ambush’ (quoted verbatim; alleged shooter has not been identified as of yet) and could not wear his spare suit as it had been shoved into his shredder. 

8:50: Sergio suggested that Martín might have been the subject of an indiscriminate student prank. 

8:51: Martín agreed that the prank was ‘immature and unpolished’ (quoted verbatim), and that the pranksters have underestimated his determination to attend the budget meeting. 

8:52: Andrés affirmed that the pranksters have underestimated Martín's 'blatant disregard for his own dignity’ (quoted verbatim), and that they wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. 

8:57: Sergio called order to quash Martín's accusations regarding Andrés' alleged involvement in the unlawful destruction of his property. Andrés claimed that any such destruction of Martín's clothes should be regarded as ‘an act of self-defense and a service to humankind’ (quoted verbatim). 

8:58: Sergio threatened to re-distribute the entirety of the budget of the Faculty of Arts and Humanity and the Faculty of Science and Engineering to fund a fourth Starbucks on the university grounds. Andrés and Martín agreed to postpone their dispute. 

8:59: Meeting resumed. 

[…] 

\-- 

It was a truth universally acknowledged that the Faculty of Arts and Humanity was at war with the Faculty of Science and Engineering. 

The feud dated back for decades – nay, centuries. As such, it was rooted in a long-standing tradition, a venerated history of in-fighting and intrigues. Andrés would be lying if he claimed that he knew of its origins. He had inherited it when he had taken over academic tenure as the head of faculty, and who was he to re-write history and throw away a perfectly good rivalry? 

Besides, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t been given ample reason to loathe the Faculty of Science and Engineering. Their budgets had been intertwined like two poisonous vines fighting for dominance for as long as he could remember: 

When the graduating class of 2014 contributed a series of triptychs to an exhibition at the South London Gallery, the number of accepted students for the Faculty of Science and Engineering was decimated by a fifth.

When Antonio Salvador won the Queen Elizabeth Prize for Engineering in 2015, the arts and humanities saw a massive cut in funding, which forced Andrés to relinquish his annual excursion to the Pergamonmuseum in Berlin. 

When Sergio hired Martín Berrote as the head of the Faculty of Science and Engineering, Andrés had to fight tooth and nail to keep his art studio because _Martín needs a decently-sized office, Andrés. We can’t put him in a broom closet. Please be reasonable_. 

Of course, Andrés had done the mature thing. He had threatened to take up a contract with the University of Barcelona, the dean of which was more than happy to provide him with his own art studio (and a private bathroom). Still, blood was thicker than water, and Sergio had always been a pushover. 

Given the circumstances, it might be fair to say that Martín Berrote stepped right into an existing minefield of budget wars and petty larks. He seemed to share Andrés' respect for tradition though, and so they both agreed – implicitly, unquestioningly – that they would uphold their Faculties’ rivalry. After all, it would be ignorant to lay it to rest. 

And, Andrés thought, Martín Berrote made it all too easy.

He was loud and brash and vulgar and petty, and Andrés positively _hated_ his guts. 

Andrés couldn't trace this hostility to a single moment or occurrence. Whether it was rooted in Berrote’s unfounded accusations that Andrés had only gotten his tenure because he was related to the dean, or because he had mocked one of his paintings during a charity exhibit, or because he had fueled the University’s rumor mill when he had suggested that Andrés was sleeping with a student (He wasn't. Tatiana was an _ex_ -student). 

There were many reasons to loathe Martin Berrote, and Andrés would be damned if he settled on just one. 

\-- 

“Oh my, whatever happened here?” 

Andrés tensed at the sound of Berrote's voice drifting over from the doorway. His tone was laced with sarcasm; the rat wasn’t even pretending to be innocent. Andrés seethed at his haughtiness, but carefully schooled his features into an emotionless mask, cold and contained. 

“Returning to the scene of crime?” Andrés tutted. "An amateur move." 

“You can’t prove anything.” 

Truthfully, Andrés thought that he could prove an awful lot, but he suspected that dragging Berrote into Sergio’s office by the collar of his hideous leather jacket just to yell _J’accuse_ and point out the suspicious similarities between the sharpie stains on Berrote’s hands and the dicks doodled all over his precious charcoal sketches would probably get Andrés suspended for manhandling a faculty member. Again. 

He turned back to his desk, sweeping up his defaced drawings and throwing them into the trashcan at his feet. Fucking Berrote. Now Andrés would have to come up with ample retribution, which meant that he'd have to reschedule his plans for the weekend. 

“What do you want?” 

Berrote shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance. 

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by for a friendly chat.” 

“Your office is on the other side of campus.” 

“And you know that because...?” Berrote trailed off, and Andrés pointedly ignored the smug glint that illuminated his eyes. If he hoped that Andrés would admit to having bribed the janitor to fill his office with mouse traps, he was out of luck. Andrés knew how to cover his tracks. 

“What do you want?” Andrés asked again, and this time his tone brooked no arguments, no weaselly excuses. Thankfully, Berrote seemed to understand that his patience was running thin. Andrés watched him bite the inside of his cheek, mulling over his next words. 

“Your brother,” Berrote said eventually, shrugging his shoulders. 

“If you’re asking me for advice on how to seduce my brother—” 

“No, no, no. You misunderstand me,” Berrote interrupted him with a shake of his head. Thank God, because Andrés really hadn't wanted to be a part of that particular conversation. "I was just wondering if you knew anything about his relationship with Murillo?” 

“Raquel?” Andrés asked, confused. Surely, Sergio would have mentioned a budding relationship. His brother wasn’t an outgoing person, preferring the company of his books and origami cranes to that of other people. As such, any interaction with another human being, much less with a woman as beautiful as Raquel Murillo, was grist to the rumor mill. 

Berotte hummed, and absentmindedly picked up a book on art history from one of the shelves next to the door. Funny, Andrés didn't know he could read.

“I saw them making eyes at each other in the cafeteria just now.” 

Andrés scoffed. 

“My brother isn’t exactly a savant in romantic liaisons and matters of the heart.” 

“He doesn’t have to be. Murillo is gutsy enough for the both of them,” Berrote said. “She was spoon-feeding him dessert. Chocolate cake.” 

“Really? Are you sure it was my brother?” Andrés pursed his lips. "I doubt that he is even capable of falling in love. He has the emotional range of a fire ant.” 

Berrote muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _it runs in the family then_ , but before Andrés could do or say anything – like grab him by the throat and shove him up against a wall for daring to insinuate that he didn’t have any feelings – Berrote pressed on. 

“Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I don’t care who gets to see Sergio naked. But I _do_ care about my money.” 

Andrés' eyes narrowed as realization dawned on him. 

“You believe he’s going to re-route the budget to promote Raquel’s faculty?” 

“It’s a textbook example of nepotism.” Berrote shrugged. “Show a straight man a pair of breasts and he’ll lose his mind like a cartoon character drooling after Penelope Pussycat. You guys are absurdly simple.” 

Andrés should probably take offense at that, but hypocrisy wasn’t a good color on him. After all, he’d had his fair share of catastrophic relationships – a track record of failure after failure, and four divorce proceedings to show for it. 

He heaved a sigh. 

“And what do you suggest we do about it?” 

Berrote smiled, dark and sinful, and Andrés felt a dire sense of foreboding wash over him. 

\-- 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Satisfy all big cock lovers with penis enlargement patch   
**Date:** 13.02.2020 / 14:23 

Secret meeting @ the Starbucks across the street from the English department? 17:00? 

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Satisfy all big cock lovers with penis enlargement patch   
**Date:** 13.02.2020 / 14:43 

Make it 18:00. 

Be glad that I even opened your mail. 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Re: Satisfy all big cock lovers with penis enlargement patch   
**Date:** 13.02.2020 / 14:46 

✌️ 

You knew it wasn’t spam. My name is right there at the top. 

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Satisfy all big cock lovers with penis enlargement patch   
**Date:** 13.02.2020 / 14:50 

Precisely why I didn’t want to open it. 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Satisfy all big cock lovers with penis enlargement patch   
**Date:** 13.02.2020 / 14:52 

_Hijo_ _de puta_

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Mail Delivery System <maildeliverysystem@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Satisfy all big cock lovers with penis enlargement patch   
**Date:** 13.02.2020 / 14:52 

This message was created automatically by mail delivery software. A message that you sent could not be delivered to one or more of its recipients. This is a permanent error. The following address(es) failed: 

<AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>

\-- 

“You blocked me!” 

Berrote hissed as soon as Andrés slid onto the seat across from him. He looked like a feral possum, especially with those ratty gloves he was wearing. Andrés had half a mind to turn around and call it a day. Let Sergio have his fun with Raquel, the budget be damned. 

But then he thought about all the cuts he would have to make – all the trips and materials and guest speakers he’d have to go without – and his resolve strengthened. Besides, Berrote would be lost without his help, without _him_. That much was clear. 

Andrés bit down on the sigh that clawed its way up his throat and instead focused on placing his copy of _The Painted Word_ and the folder filled with yet-to-be-graded papers on the table, an impenetrable wall of knowledge and worldly wisdom to separate him from the plebian sitting across from him. 

Still, Andrés wasn't a monster. He prided himself on his impeccable manners, his altruistic nature. Which was why he was making a great show of pushing the coffee he had gotten for Berrote – a humble offering, a truce – across the table. Berrote eyed it wearily, as though it might try to bite his fingers off, but Andrés didn't miss the way his hand inched slowly towards it. 

“Did you put anything in this?” 

“Milk.” 

Berrote narrowed his eyes at him. 

“What kind of milk?” 

“The poisonous kind. Now drink.” 

Berrote huffed, but brought the cup up to his lips anyway. The coffee seemed to pass muster. Andrés could see the tension fade from Berrote's shoulders as he leant back in his seat, a lump of black turtleneck and washed-out leather jacket. He looked comfortable, cozy even. All bundled-up, his cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of the coffee. 

Andrés dragged his eyes away from him, choosing to stare out the window instead. Outside, it was snowing, slowly, softly. Little tufts of white were twirling through the air, a whimsical ballet of wind and ice. A winter wonderland in the making. 

“What’s your plan?” 

“We need to drive a wedge between them,” Berrote said. “Obviously.” 

“And how do you suggest we do that?” 

“We could set Murillo up with someone else. No offence, but how hard can it be to find a man who’s a better catch than Sergio, hmm?” 

Andrés tapped a finger against his lips, lost in thought. 

“If Raquel has set her sights on Sergio, she might not be willing to give him up so easily.” 

“I suppose we could frame her for something? Embezzlement sounds rather thrilling,” Berrote offered, taking another sip of his coffee. “Let’s see if Sergio still wants to fuck her when she’s stuck in penitentiary.” 

Oh, for the love of... Andrés shook his head, appalled. 

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he said. “Your brand of finesse consists of defacing invaluable artworks. Of course, you would come up with something that is beyond ridiculous, so much so that it might as well be a plot for a penny dreadful. Tell me, why not reach for the stars and frame her for murder instead, hmm?” 

“But that would mean we’d have to kill someone,” Berrote mock-gasped, the guise of innocence ruined by the wolfish smile that stretched over his lips, slow and dangerous. Deadly. “Or are you offering, _querido_? Your death would make me the luckiest man alive. Oh please, oh please say yes!” 

They glared at each other, having reached an impasse. A part of Andrés wanted to draw the moment out, to see how long it would take Berrote to cave and break, but his resolve was broken by the jarring giggles of a pair of students at the next table. Right, Andrés thought. They weren’t here to play games, to engage in a battle of wits. This was _business_ , and each second spent in Berrote’s company was a second wasted. 

“We’re going to gather intel,” Andrés said, ignoring the way Berrote crossed his arms in front of his chest like a sulking child. “I’ll talk to Raquel. See if you can get anything out of Sergio.” 

“Fine.” 

“And keep me updated.” 

Andrés got up and smoothed a hand over the front of his suit, the velvet soft and sleek beneath his palm. He gathered up his belongings, ready to head out and face the harsh winter chill, but the look on Berrote’s face gave him pause. 

“Didn’t you want...” Berrote trailed off, glancing past Andrés at the cake display. "It's just that I haven't eaten yet.” 

Unbelievable. What, did Berrote think this was a social outing? A meeting between good friends, a _date_? Maybe he wanted to grab a picnic basket as well, venture out into the campus gardens like a dawdling couple. Feed each other fresh strawberries and exchange lines of poetry, _how shall I hold my soul so it does not touch on yours_? 

“I’ll be quick,” Berrote said before Andrés could laugh in his face, grabbing his wallet and making a beeline for the counter. “You want anything? Nevermind, I’ll get you a chocolate muffin.” 

With a stifled sigh, Andrés sunk back into his chair. He could feel a wave of annoyance rising up inside of him, dark and bitter, and yet it didn’t seem to be enough to make him leave. 

How curious. 

\-- 

Sergio Marquina   
Dean for Administration   
University of Madrid   
  
17.02.2020 

**Re** **: The Proper Use of the University Parking Lot**

Dear Martín, 

I am writing this letter to inform you about a complaint I received from Andrés de Fonollosa, head of the Faculty of Arts and Humanity, regarding the proper use of the parking lot. If you insist on ‘exploring alternate venues of power engines’ [quoted verbatim from your course schedule], may I suggest conducting your cola-and-mentos experiment in the park, rather than in the parking spot next to Andrés'? The University’s budget does not allow for car cleaning bills. 

Sincerely,   
Sergio Marquina 

P.S. Please stop aggravating my brother. He’s a pain in the ass already. 

[Post-it stuck to aforementioned letter of complaint] 

_Raquel expressed desire to ask Sergio out on a date._   
_Suggested that Sergio has wanted to go to a techno rave for a while now._   
_—_ _AdF_

[Post-it stuck to the door of Andrés de Fonollosa’s office] 

_My office, 19:00?_   
_—_ _M_

\-- 

Berrote was running late. 

Andrés glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, his foot tapping impatiently against the linoleum floor. He hated tardiness, _abhorred_ it with a burning passion. It was a sign of disrespect, proof that Berrote didn’t value his time. And to think that Andrés had rescheduled a date with Tatiana for this. Clearly, his sacrifice hadn’t been worth it. 

Still, he continued to wait. 

Berrote arrived ten minutes later, apologies spilling from his lips and blueprints spilling over his arms. Andrés pointedly ignored his plight when he struggled to unlock the door to his office, balancing his things on the curve of his knee as he fiddled with the keys. 

Once Berrote had managed to open the door (“You have to kick the frame when it jams,” he explained with a pained smile), he made a sweeping gesture with his arms, _mi casa es_ _su_ _casa_. Andrés shot him an unamused glare as he pushed past him – and stopped right in his tracks. 

The office was infinitesimally small, positively tiny. There was barely any room to move, not without either knocking into a piece of furniture or stumbling over a towering stack of paper sprouting from the ground like mushrooms. 

If Berrote noticed the look of bewilderment on Andrés' face, he didn't show. He simply wiggled past the too-large desk sat at the center of the room like a sacrificial altar, and dumped his blueprints onto the Leaning Tower of Paper next to his laptop. His desk was a mess, and the shelves lining the walls didn’t fare any better; they were bending beneath the weight of the hardcovers stacked on their strained backs. 

Behind Berrote’s desk hung a large gay pride flag – the only spot of color in the otherwise bleak office. 

Andrés felt his chest tighten with... no, not guilt. That would be ridiculous. 

“Sit,” Berrote said, nodding towards a lawn chair crammed barely a meter away from the door. If anyone were to barge into the office while Andrés was sitting there, they'd knock straight into his back. Lovely. 

Wrangling the look of distaste on his face into submission, Andrés folded himself onto the proffered chair. His knees immediately knocked into the edge of the desk. 

Berrote didn’t seem to grasp the absurdity of the situation: two grown men stuffed into a cramped office like sardines. It was undignified, and Andrés wanted nothing more than to suggest they relocate to one of the many coffeeshops on campus. Hell, even one of the bathrooms would afford them with more space. 

“I talked to your brother,” Berrote said animatedly. He picked up a pen, twirled it between his fingers. Tucked it behind his ear. He was brimming with energy and barely-contained excitement. With mischief. “I told him that Murillo had the hots for blond guys. And then I recommended him a coiffeur.” 

Against his will – and despite his sour mood – Andrés found himself grinning. 

“Oh my, Martín," he drawled. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor.” 

Berrote beamed, impossibly wide, and it was only then that Andrés realized that he had used his first name. 

\-- 

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Meet me at the art fest – 20:00 be on time   
**Date:** 21.02.2020 / 15:52 

It’s black tie. 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Meet me at the art fest – 20:00 be on time   
**Date:** 21.02.2020 / 15:56 

I’ll gladly be your arm candy 

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Re: Meet me at the art fest – 20:00 be on time   
**Date:** 21.02.2020 / 15:58 

Raquel and Sergio will be there. This is strictly business.   
To qualify as my arm candy, you’d have to be more attractive than I am. 

\-- 

Andrés spent the hours leading up to the art fest fending off pesky students (fretting over their art works), caterers (fretting over the arrangement of the champagne pyramid) and Sergio (fretting over the cost of the champagne pyramid). Which is to say that by the time Martín sidled up to him, Andrés was close to tearing someone's throat out with his bare hands. 

So, off to a promising start. 

“Very nice,” Martín hummed, craning his neck to admire the venue. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, ever the opportunist. "Did you do all of this?" 

Andrés cast him a sideways glance. 

“Don’t you have to organize events for your faculty?” He asked. “Showing off engines and demonstrating your overall lackluster understanding of art and pictorial stimulation?” 

“Thank fuck, no.” Martin shuddered in horror. “Although I’d love to see the look on Sergio’s face if I hired an ensemble of exotic dancers for an exhibition on engines. You know, to highlight my overall lackluster understanding of art and pictorial stimulation.” 

Andrés lips twitched into a smile, and he quickly turned away to hide it. 

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” 

“ _Si_ _señor_ ,” Martín trilled, giving him a mock-salute before slipping his hand into the crook of his arm. Andrés let him. 

“These are the final theses of my post-graduate students,” Andrés explained, indicating the paintings adorning the walls with a nod of his head. He led Martín around the gallery, pointing out his favorite pieces whilst educating him about the topic selection, the choice of materials, the structural components. 

Much to his surprise – and delight, really – Martín proved to be a wonderful audience. He was enrapt and attentive, an eager student. Even if Andrés couldn't shake the impression that Martín seemed more interested in _him_ than the objets d’art. Martín kept glancing his way, as though he were a moth drawn to the flame. 

(Careful, Andrés wanted to say. You'll get burned.) 

For his part Andrés basked in the attention. There was something seductive, something _erotic_ , about teaching someone how to appreciate art. How to see and feel, how to take a work of art apart and entwine it with the loose cirrus of your soul, irrevocably. 

They came to a stop when they reached their starting point, a circle closing in on itself. 

“Do you want another drink?” 

“Hmm? Oh yes, please.” 

Martín offered Andrés a shy smile as he took his empty glass and wound his way towards the champagne pyramid. 

While he had been showing Martín around – playing the gracious host – the gallery had filled with guests, and Andrés felt his chest swell with gratification as his eyes roamed over the proud students, the interested guests and art critics, all of them moving between the paintings like colorful fish in a stream. 

The art fest was turning out to be a success, and yet it was Martín who occupied Andrés' thoughts.

He snatched two glasses off the pyramid before making his way back to Martín, slowing his steps so he could take a moment to appreciate the sight. 

Martín looked good, Andrés thought. Framed by paintings, he looked like a work of art himself. Like he belonged in a gallery, an entire exhibition devoted to the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his chin, the slope of his neck. A separate section dedicated to the pantone of his eyes – blue or green or gray, or a whole new shade yet unknown to mankind. 

Standing there, Martín looked like someone whose company Andrés would enjoy. 

Like someone whose company Andrés _did_ enjoy. 

He pushed the realization away, unwilling to ruin a perfectly good evening with laborious soul-searching. He had Sergio for that – and the number of a highly recommended therapist a block away from his apartment (if he fished it out of his trashcan, that is). 

“Ah, thank you,” Martín said, taking the glass from Andrés, and making a show of craning his neck around the room. “So, where are your paintings then, hmm?” 

“In the adjoining room. That section over there.” 

“Can we go and see them?” 

“No.” 

“What, why not?” Martín's face fell, a perfect imitation of a child who had just been told that Papa Noel didn’t exist. 

Andrés ignored the way his stomach dropped at the sight of Martín's frowning face, and instead schooled his features into a mask of careful indifference. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, turning away to look at the painting in front of them. Its colors were too bright. Too _cheerful_. 

“I’m not in the mood to have my paintings criticized.” 

“Why would you think that I’d shower you with anything other than praise and admiration?” 

“The last time you came to one of my exhibits, you called my pieces ‘bourgeois’.” 

Martín blanched. 

“No, that’s- I didn’t mean to—” He cut himself off with a frustrated groan, and Andrés got the impression that if it weren’t for the glass of champagne in his hand, he’d run his fingers through his hair, like a madman. 

He sighed. 

“I don’t actually know a thing about art. I usually just throw fancy words around.” He raised his chin and squared his shoulders, affecting a self-assured tone. “The lines are very bourgeois, and that lighting is positively bellicose. And oh, would you look at those colors – so contumacious and lachrymose.” 

His face fell, the facade of brash bravura crumbling to the floor. Martín looked weary, _miserable_ even. As though he had just confessed to a shameful secret rather than an – admittedly insignificant – gap in his education. As though he expected Andrés to scoff at him and turn away, dropping him now that he’d uncovered his lack of sophistication. 

Andrés wondered if that was how lowly Martín thought of himself. If he truly thought that his only worth lay in his ability to match Andrés' interests, to indulge him in his hobbies – in his passion. And if so, did that mean that Martín had simply been trying to pay him a compliment at his exhibition, back then? 

Was it possible that Martín had been trying to impress _him_?

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Martín said in a small voice. "For what it's worth, I think you're very talented." 

He offered him a halfhearted smile that didn’t reach his eyes before turning away. Andrés watched him disappear into the throng of people, just another suit and tie in a sea of many. 

He felt his chest tighten. A vice pushing down on his ribcage, harsh and uncomfortable. Painful.

Must be the champagne, Andrés thought. 

(It wasn’t until later when he was lying in bed, staring unseeingly at the ceiling, that he realized they hadn’t even made any efforts to sabotage Sergio’s blossoming relationship.) 

\-- 

[Post-it stuck to the door of Martín Berrote's office] 

_You make excellent arm candy._   
_—AfD_

\-- 

[Text messages between Andrés de Fonollosa and Sergio Marquina] 

Andrés (15:20): What about Arturito’s old office? 

Sergio (16:02): For the last time, Andrés: one studio is more than enough. You’re not getting another one. 

Andrés (16:04): It’s not for me. Martín's office is too small. 

Sergio (16:12): Why were you in Martín's office? 

Sergio (16:13): And since when do you care? 

Sergio (16:16): You were the one who told me to renovate one of the broom closets instead of giving up your space. 

Sergio (16:22): Arturo’s old office needs to be refurbished. The vent is broken. 

Andrés (16:24): What about my storage room in building E? 

Sergio (16:27): Isn’t that where you keep your students’ artworks? You _insisted_ on that storage space. 

Andrés (16:30): I’ll throw them out. Give the space to Martín. 

Sergio (16:43): Fine. 

\-- 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Hot singles in your area   
**Date:** 25.02.2020 / 09:58 

I moved!!! Sergio finally gave me a proper office. I’ve clearly grown on him.   
Do you think it’s because of the dating advice? 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Hot singles in your area   
**Date:** 25.02.2020 / 10:16 

If anything, your dating advice (as well as your well-intentioned comments on Sergio’s nonexistent dress sense – yes, he told me) has made him want to move your things into one of the dumpsters outside. 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: Re: Hot singles in your area   
**Date:** 25.02.2020 / 10:18 

Rude. 

btw I’m much closer to your office now. I can almost make out your disgustingly handsome face when I look out my window. 

Come and have a coffee with me? ☕ To celebrate our new neighborly bond? 

\-- 

Just like Andrés relished in the inherent eroticism of teaching art, Martín had a talent of turning mundane equations into poetry. He made the numbers come alive, wove them into a foreign language, a wondrous symphony. 

Whereas Andrés considered himself a stern teacher, intolerant of disrespect and ignorance, Martín was warmer. More expressive. His whole body seemed to _thrill_ with enthusiasm, turning him into a blur of black shirts and leather as he scribbled numbers upon numbers on the blackboard or bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet. 

It was a sight to behold. 

A soft smile played about Andrés' lips as he watched him, eyes drawn to the smudge of chalk on his right cheekbones. He looked down on the sketch in front of him, tracing his index finger over the face beaming back at him, almost reverently. He was quite satisfied with himself, with how he managed to capture Martín's essence in just a few simple brush strokes. The spark in his eyes, the convex of his smile. 

“Congratulations, _señoras_ _y_ _señores_. You have survived another hour on the awe-inspiring topic of responsible information systems.” Martín clasped his hands together, the sudden noise startling Andrés out of his thoughts. Around him, the students began to pack their things together, chatting amicably as they wove through the rows of seats towards the exit. 

Andrés gathered up his paper and brushes, neatly folding them into his satchel, before making his way to the front of the lecture hall. Martín was engrossed in a conversation with a pair of students who had lingered behind, and Andrés caught little snippets of conversations – something about a get-together at a bar after their evening classes. 

He stopped a few meters away, impatiently waiting for the students to leave. To take their fill of Martín, and stop hogging his attention. Normally, Andrés wouldn't have had any qualms about interrupting, but this was Martín's classroom. It was only polite to follow his lead. 

Still, he needn't have worried. When the students finally left, Martín looked up, noticing his presence for the first time. If Andrés had had any doubts about being welcome in his lecture hall, the way Martín's whole face lit up would have put them to rest. Andrés felt a rush of warmth race through his veins at the million-watt smile on Martín's face, a summer downpour, sweltering and pleasant. 

“Andrés!" Martín grinned, tongue poking against the charming gap in his teeth. “To what do I owe the honor? I thought you’d burn to ashes if you ventured out of the arts building?” 

Andrés' lips twitched into a smirk. 

“And yet, here I am.” 

“Braving certain death to see me,” Martín said, feigning humbleness. “You flatter me.” 

He affected a coy expression, fluttering his lashes in an imitation of girlish vapidity – a variation on a look Andrés had seen, and enjoyed, on the faces of his ex-wives before. And yet he found that he preferred this version. Preferred this teasing mockery, this playful mimicry. 

He preferred _Martín_. 

“Come on,” Andrés said, trailing his hand along the curve of Martín's arm. "I'm buying you lunch." 

\-- 

**To:** Ariadna Cascales <ACascales@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Alison Parker <AParker@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** is ur boss dating my boss? It's more likely than u think   
**Date:** 26.02.2020 / 12:35 

Hey A, 

Quick question: Do you know if our bosses are fucking? It’s just that Martín usually turns into an angry possum whenever Fonollosa is in his line of sight. But now he’s got this silly smile on his face when someone mentions his name. He’s like a blushing virgin – it's actually kinda cute. 

Also, I think I saw them having lunch the other day? 

Love,   
Alison

P.S. I’m so sorry the bucket of slime Martín had me place on the door to Fonollosa’s office a few weeks ago hit you instead of him. Please send me the bill for the dry cleaning. I’ll get Martín to sign off on it. 

P.P.S. If you know anything about our bosses hooking up (a.k.a. if you have walked in on them fucking), please don’t give me any dirty details. Cheers. 

**To:** Alison Parker <AParker@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Ariadna Cascales <ACascales@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: is ur boss dating my boss? It's more likely than u think   
**Date:** 26.02.2020 / 13:01 

Alison, 

I’ve been wondering the same. Andrés' art studio has turned into some kind of creepy shrine – he’s got about a hundred sketches of Berrote lying around. It’s weirding me out. 

Plus, I’m now officially allowed to let Berrote into Andrés' office. My previous instructions were to ’blow your rape whistle, kick him in the shins, and tell him to go fuck himself’. 

These are strange times we’re living in. 

Love,   
Ariadna 

P.S. Don’t worry about the dry cleaning. I’m used to it. Andrés' office is a minefield of open paint buckets. 

P.P.S. Honestly, I’d gouge my eyes out if I had to see Andrés naked 🤢 

\-- 

[Text messages between Andrés de Fonollosa and Martín Berrote] 

Martín (20:25): Had the WORST day 😢 Take me out for a drink? 

Martín (20:31): This is your favorite engineer btw 

Andrés (20:38): How did you get my number? 

Martín (20:39): Remember the brunette from the library? She’s my TA 

Andrés (20:41): You whored out one of your students so you could get my number? 

Martín (20:42): Wait, did you sleep with her 

Martín (20:43): Are we allowed to do that 

Martín (20:44): I originally wanted to sign you up for the Scientology newsletter 

Martín (20:44): you should be grateful I didn’t 

Andrés (20:45): I'd rather join a cult than talk to you. 

Martín (20:46): Liar 

Martín (20:48): 21:00 @ _Wish you were beer_ 🍺 I’m the cute guy in the leather jacket 

\-- 

They had poured their bodies into a corner booth, their legs entangled underneath the table. 

The place was crowded – which meant that they hadn’t had to pay for a single drink so far. The first round had been bought by Andrés' post-graduates, rounds two and three had been courtesy of Martín's doctoral students. 

Andrés secretly suspected that they were trying to get him drunk so he’d cancel his morning classes. Either that or they were just as amused by Martín's drunken antics as Andrés was. How he'd burst into a fit of giggles at the smallest of things, how he'd – clumsy as a newborn fawn – bump into the furniture and _apologize to it_. Like an idiot. 

Still, Andrés couldn't help but be smitten with him. 

He enjoyed seeing Martín like this, so giggly and affectionate. Carefree. Enjoyed, too, the way his eyes sparked, the animated gestures whenever he talked about something he was passionate about (even if Andrés had to move quickly to rescue their glasses from a fateful tumble or two). 

“There’s an exhibition on the art of creative engineering,” Andrés said during a lull in their conversation. He hadn’t meant to mention it, but the way Martín sucked in a sharp breath made him glad for this slip of the tongue, this unforeseen opportunity. 

“We could go,” Martín suggested, his accent thickened by excitement. “To see it. Together.” 

Andrés tapped a finger against his lips, as if considering Martín's offer. As if he hadn't decided to take him the very moment he’d seen the hope shining in Martín's eyes. 

“I’ll get the tickets,” Andrés said, and just like that Martín's face broke into a bright smile and he straightened in his seat, as though he had been filled with life, with a purpose. 

The sudden movement upset the liquid in his glass, causing the tequila to slosh over Martín's hand. Not that he seemed to mind. He simply raised it to his lips, tongue darting out to lick the alcohol off his fingers. 

Andrés' heart stopped. 

He stared at Martín, unwilling to look away for even a second. Heat coiled low in his stomach, dark and heavy, bolstered by the fact that Martín seemed to be completely oblivious to his discomfort. To the effect his actions had on him. 

Andrés wanted nothing more than to grab Martín's hand and suck his fingers into his mouth, to scrape his teeth against the sensitive skin between his fingers, to lave them with his tongue until he’d tasted the last traces of tequila. Until there was nothing left but _Martín_. 

“I can’t wait,” Martín said. Andrés blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, feeling lost. 

\-- 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Sergio Marquina <SMarquina@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** (No Subject)   
**Date:** 27.02.2020 / 08:25 

Andrés, 

I realized that I haven’t received a letter of complaint from either you or Martín in a while now.  
I know you’re up to something. Whatever it is, don’t. 

Sincerely,   
Sergio 

P.S. Do you think I should dye my hair?

**To:** Sergio Marquina <SMarquina@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: (No Subject)   
**Date:** 27.02.2020 / 10:03 

Your lack of trust in me is appalling. 

\-- 

[Text messages between Andrés de Fonollosa and Martín Berrote] 

Andrés (11:12): I’ll pick you up at your place at 18:00. 

Martín (11:15): What a gentleman! I shall be awaiting your carriage 

Martín (11:17): I like azaleas 

Martín (11:18): In case you want to get me flowers 

Andrés (11:36): This isn’t a date. You’re not getting any flowers. 

Martín (11:38): Fine. Chocolates then 

\-- 

Andrés didn't know what he had expected. After all, he had seen Martín's leather jackets, so he _knew_ that the man lacked style. Of course, his flat would he spartan. There were hardly any personal belongings, no photographs of family or friends, and no plants or pets either (Andrés counted the latter as a plus). 

He moved towards one of the shelves in the living room but froze when he heard a noise coming from the hallway. He waited for a beat, two, three. Nothing. Andrés breathed a sigh of relief. Not because he felt guilty about breaking into Martín's flat, no. If he hadn’t wanted Andrés to snoop through his things, he wouldn’t have made it so laughably easy to find out his address. 

(Andrés had bribed one of the secretaries in HR. He had also changed Martín's emergency contact – if Martín got into an accident, he would now wake up to the melodious trill of Denver’s laugh.) 

Humming to himself, Andrés rifled through his mail (bills, a postcard signed ‘Love, Helsinki’, subscriptions to journals on engineering) before his eyes fell on a book sitting on the coffee table next to the sofa. 

_The Painted Word_. 

Carefully, Andrés picked it up. Pink post-it notes were sticking out from between its pages, little comments or question marks or _ask Andrés what this means_. 

He snapped the book shut and returned it to its place, ignoring the traitorous flutter of his heart.

The kitchen was next. He started with the fridge; there were a few bottles of alcohol (beer and a half-empty bottle of tequila) and a carton of milk. And that was about it. Andrés shuddered. He dreaded to think what Martín was surviving on. Probably take-away and cheap sandwiches from one of the many coffee shops on campus. Andrés vowed to take him out for lunch more often. 

He closed the fridge, his eyes widening as he came face-to-face with a couple of his own sketches. They were stuck to the fridge's door with a set of magnets, Martín's face beaming back at him from bright post-its or ripped-out notebook pages. They were cartoonish and silly, little devil’s horns adorning Martín's head in most of them. A speech bubble here and there: _la_ _concha de_ _tu_ _madre_. 

He hadn’t known that Martín had kept them. That he had hung them up in his flat like a valued keepsake, a cherished treasure. 

It made Andrés feel special. _Loved_.

A shrill noise cut through the silence, and Andrés jumped. It sounded like a bell or, no – the phone. Andrés followed the ringing into the living room just in time to see the answering machine blink into life, Martín's voice instructing the caller to leave a message after the _beep, mi queridos_. 

“Eeeeh, _cariño_. It’s Ágata. I guess you’re still at work?” The voice – Ágata – snickered. “Or maybe you’ve finally managed to charm your way into a date with Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, hmm? Either way, give me a call when you hear this. It’s about Helsi’s birthday. Love you!” 

Andrés felt his blood run cold, a bucket of ice tipped over his head. The words were echoing in his ears, a taunting voice repeating _date_ and _Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome_ , and _that's you, Andrés, isn't it?_

He turned on his heels and left, the tickets to the exhibition lying forgotten on the kitchen aisle. 

\-- 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** smooth criminal   
**Date:** 29.02.2020 / 18:14 

Did you break into my flat? You know what, I don’t even care.   
Are you coming back anytime soon? We’re gonna run late 

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: smooth criminal   
**Date:** 29.02.2020 / 18:29 

I can’t. I have a date. Take someone else. 

\-- 

Andrés would fight anyone who dared call him a coward. Tooth and nail, and to the death.

He wasn’t hiding from Martín. He simply needed some time to himself. To... _evaluate_ this situation. To wrap his head around the loose tendrils floating through his mind, flashes of Martín's smile, the warmth of his eyes. The teasing remarks on his answering machine, a message in a bottle – whom it may concern. 

If this Ágata was right and Martín did indeed harbor a crush on him... Well, Andrés supposed he should have expected it. He was a charming man, after all. Handsome and intelligent, _powerful_. He couldn’t fault Martín for falling for him. 

And yet... 

Andrés couldn't fathom the reasoning behind Martín's actions. Why not make a move? Invite Andrés out to dinner and suggest that they not only share dessert, but also a bed. Andrés would have turned him down, of course, but wasn't it better to at least _try_ , rather than settle for measly scraps, stripped off all hope?

Martín must be the most selfless man Andrés had ever known. 

He stared at the canvas in front of him, raising his brush to sharpen the edge of Martín's cheekbone. He looked sad in this one, almost forlorn. A mirror of Andrés' own solitude. Strangely enough, it pained Andrés to see him like this – even if the agony in his eyes was Andrés' own creation. 

Still, Andrés couldn't shake the impression that there was more to it. A deep-rooted secret betrayed by the curve of his lips, a bitter smile that was etched onto Martín's face even in this facsimile. It seemed as if the man staring back at him from the canvas was _savoring_ the pain. 

Andrés lowered the brush, his heart sinking. But of course. He hadn’t recognized it then – hadn't _wanted_ to recognize it. The look of distaste on Martín's face whenever he looked at himself in the mirror, the downward turn of his lips when someone commented on the gay pride flag decorating his office. The reluctance to admit his shortcomings, the easy acceptance with which he had settled into a miniature office space.

Martín, Andrés realized, wasn't selfless at all. 

He simply _reveled_ in the misery of his own making, welcoming its aesthetic with open arms, embracing its sharp bite. Like a Byronic hero, Martín was riddled with self-loathing and a selfish desire to pursue it, to stretch his fingers towards its flame and clasp it in his trembling hands. Because he believed that he _deserved_ the pain. 

The thought left a bitter tang in Andrés' mouth. It was as if someone had poured a bucket of black paint over him, covering him from head to toe in gloom. It spread through him, fast and hungry, _tainting_ him. 

He wanted to storm into Martín's office like a raging beast. Wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, until he understood that he was fucking brilliant. That he was _radiant_ , shining from the inside out. 

He didn’t do any of that. Instead, he covered the painting with a white sheet, and took another sip of his wine. Out of sight, out of mind. 

\-- 

**To:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** (No Subject)   
**Date:** 02.03.2020 / 03:14 

What did I do wrong 

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Mail Delivery System <maildeliverysystem@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: (No Subject)   
**Date:** 02.03.2020 / 03:14 

This message was created automatically by mail delivery software. A message that you sent could not be delivered to one or more of its recipients. This is a permanent error. The following address(es) failed: 

<AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>

\-- 

Andrés felt uprooted as he strode through the empty halls of his faculty building. It was eerie to walk these halls by night, devoid of life and student chatter, a hollow chamber whose sole occupants were the faces in the paintings adorning the looming walls. He was alone, and yet he felt observed. Judged and condemned. 

His rekindling with Tatiana had been short-lived. Their affair had left him wanting, as though a vital piece of him were missing. A canvas filled the cavity of his chest, painted black. At least that was the closest he had come to describing it, the metaphor he had settled on after hours of tossing and turning in bed. 

It was also the reason why he had thrown on a suit and driven down to the University. Maybe he could channel his restlessness into something productive, grade student papers or finish up the draft for his upcoming publication. Anything to keep his mind from cannibalizing itself, to keep it from churning over the same subject matter again and again, like a dog chasing its own tail. 

However, Andrés' feet came to an abrupt stop when he rounded the corner to his office and saw that his lights were on. He _knew_ that he had turned them off, which meant... 

Just as he’d expected, Martín was sitting in his chair. He was slumped over the desk, his head resting on his arms, shoulders heaving with sobs that wrecked through his whole body. He looked like the epitome of self-pity and heartache, and Andrés felt a sharp twinge inside his chest. Guilt. 

Martín must have sensed his presence. He sniffed one last time before slowly raising his head. Andrés wanted to turn away in shame when he saw the red-rimmed eyes, the tears streaking down his cheeks. 

“What did I do wrong?” Martín sobbed; his voice was hoarse with abject misery. "We were- we were okay, but then- just tell me how I fucked up and what I have to do to fix it.” 

Andrés shook his head. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Bullshit!” Martín yelled as he jumped up, his arms flinging out to sweep his things off the desk, books and papers and brushes clattering to the floor in a violent disarray. “We were getting along! You _wanted_ to spend time with me, and then you changed your mind and threw me away like a broken toy. Clearly, I must have done something wrong, so _please_. Just tell me. I’ll make it right again, I promise.” 

Andrés sighed, resigned. This was it, then.

“The message. On your answering machine. I was there when your friend called.” 

_I heard what she said about me_ , Andrés added mentally. _What she said about_ us _._

He watched the color drain from Martín's face. 

“Fuck,” he said, eyes looking anywhere but at Andrés. "I'm sorry. I know that you’re... and I know _I_ 'm not... You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to fucking try anything.” 

And wasn't life funny, Andrés thought. When he had decided to drop by work, he hadn't known what to do about the whole situation with Martín. But all of a sudden, it was as if Andrés' eyes had been opened, a holy revelation manifesting itself in front of him. The dried paint crumbled off the blackened canvas, blank once more. A new dawn, bright and luminous. 

He knew exactly what to do, now. 

“But that’s the problem, Martín," he said, slowly closing the distance between them. “Because I’ve come to the realization that I’d very much like for you to try something.” 

He heard Martín's breath hitch, a shaky exhale. He looked impossibly hopeful, his eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. It was enough for Andrés. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Martín's, chaste and gentle. A thing of innocence. 

Martín whimpered. 

It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard, honeyed in texture. Andrés couldn’t get enough of it, was helpless to do anything but coax it from his willing mouth again and again, and then – once he had memorized it – he searched for new sounds, reveling in each sigh, each mewl, each moan he drew from Martín. 

Andrés wanted to see how far he could push him. Wanted to feel Martín, pliant and eager, beneath his hands. To touch and taste, and savor the unparalleled beauty of this moment. To draw it out for as long as he could, a sliver of time _straining_. 

Any hesitations Andrés had had about being with Martín – about being with a _man_ – turned into an afterthought, stripped off its relevance. The only thing that mattered was _Martín_. How beautifully he fell apart in his arms, how he trembled against his body, mad with desire. And how could Andrés _not_ love every sound he made, every glance, every touch? Martín was so pliant in his hands, melting like gold, as roseate as a piece of fine-skinned marble. 

A work of art. 

(And in that moment, Andrés vowed to show him again and again, until Martín understood.)

\-- 

**To:** Martín Berrote <MBerrote@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Andrés de Fonollosa <AdeFonollosa@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Fwd: Please for the love of God   
**Date:** 04.03.2020 / 08:14 

Andrés, 

Please stop having sex in your office. I can’t believe you’re forcing me to have this conversation with you again and again. 

Stop being such an ass,   
Sergio 

\-- 

They were having lunch in Andrés’ office. It had quickly become a routine for them – just another part of their day, like the shared coffee breaks in the afternoon or the spontaneous I-was-just-in-the-neighborhood-and-thought-of-you visits (which were a front; their buildings were a good fifteen minutes apart. Still, getting to see Martín was worth the occasional work-out). 

Andrés picked absentmindedly at his salad, nodding along as Martín talked about his new doctoral student, when the door burst open and Sergio stormed in, brandishing one of Andrés' silk ties like a battle axe. 

“Do you think this is funny?” 

Truthfully? Yes. He had only hung the tie on his doorknob because he’d known that Sergio would likely stop by for a chat – as he was wont to do every Thursday – and he simply couldn’t pass up on an opportunity to fluster him. And ah, would you look at that. As red as a lobster. 

“Sergio,” Martín said as he turned in his chair, coming perilously close to upsetting the take-away bowl of soup on his lap. “There’s something different about you... No, don’t tell me! Have you done something with your hair?” 

Sergio grimaced, as if he had just bitten into a sour lemon, and Andrés turned away to hide the smirk on his face. 

“This is exactly—” He cut himself off with a long-suffering groan, rubbing at his temples. “I know what you two have been up to.” 

Andrés tutted. 

“The tie was a bit of a give-away.” 

“No, not- not _that_ ,” Sergio sputtered, turning – impossibly – even redder. “I meant with Raquel. You were trying to make me look like a fool.” 

“Oh, _hermanito_ ,” Martín drawled, his eyes shining with feigned pity as he nodded towards the mop of blond hair on Sergio’s head. “You’re doing a great job at that without our help.” 

God, Andrés _adored_ him. 

“Well,” Sergio scowled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Andrés could see the fingers of his left hand twitching against his thigh, and he wondered if his brother wanted to strangle Martín. "I just wanted to let you know that you can stop with- with whatever it is you were trying to accomplish. Raquel has asked me out on a date, and I said yes.” 

“Oh, good on you!” Martín cooed. "Do you want to go on a double date?" 

Sergio clenched his jaw as he looked past Martín at Andrés, as if to say _really, this one?_ Andrés offered him a lopsided smile, fulfilled. 

Yes, he thought. That one. 

\-- 

**To:** Ariadna Cascales <ACascales@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Alison Parker <AParker@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:**...   
**Date:** 09.03.2020 / 14:57 

A, 

What the fuck is wrong with them?? I can’t even go into my office without walking in on them making out like horny teenagers. By now I’m spending my entire paycheck on bleach for my eyes. Help. 

Love,   
Alison 

\-- 

Sent from my mobile device. 

**To:** Alison Parker <AParker@madrid-university.com>   
**From:** Ariadna Cascales <ACascales@madrid-university.com>   
**Subject:** Re: ...   
**Date:** 09.03.2020 / 15:28 

Alison, 

We could frame them for embezzlement? 

Love,   
Ariadna 

\--

**Author's Note:**

> > Andrés quotes Rainer Maria Rilke's poem Love-Song ( _How shall I hold my soul so it does not / touch on yours_ ), because he's pretentious like that.
>> 
>> The title is taken from _Easy Tiger_ by Kelsy Karter.
> 
> It's been a while since I wrote an AU; I had completely forgotten how much fun it is.
> 
> As always, you can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com). Comments, Kudos and Feedback are much appreciated!


End file.
